The Spanish Curate: A Comedy. Beaumont Francis

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      You have said, Sir,

      I will not fight with words, but deeds to tame you,

      Rest confident I will, and thou shalt wish

      This day thou hadst been dumb.—

      You have given him a heat,

      But with your own distemper.

      Not a whit,

      Now he is from mine eye, I can be merry,

      Forget the cause and him: all plagues go with him,

      Let's talk of something else: what news is stirring?

      Nothing to pass the time?

      'Faith it is said

      That the next Summer will determine much

      Of that we long have talk'd of, touching the Wars.

      What have we to do with them? Let us discourse

      Of what concerns our selves. 'Tis now in fashion

      To have your Gallants set down in a Tavern,

      What the Arch-Dukes purpose is the next spring, and what

      Defence my Lords (the States) prepare: what course

      The Emperour takes against the encroaching Turk,

      And whether his Moony-standards are design'd

      For Persia or Polonia: and all this

      The wiser sort of State-Worms seem to know

      Better than their own affairs: this is discourse

      Fit for the Council it concerns; we are young,

      And if that I might give the Theme, 'twere better

      To talk of handsome Women.

      And that's one,

      Almost as general.

      Yet none agree

      Who are the fairest.

      Some prefer the French,

      For their conceited Dressings: some the plump

      Italian Bona-Robas, some the State

      That ours observe; and I have heard one swear,

      (A merry friend of mine) that once in London,

      He did enjoy the company of a Gamester,

      (A common Gamester too) that in one night

      Met him th' Italian, French, and Spanish wayes,

      And ended in the Dutch; for to cool her self,

      She kiss'd him drunk in the morning.

      We may spare

      The travel of our tongues in forraign Nations,

      When in Corduba, if you dare give credit

      To my report (for I have seen her, Gallants)

      There lives a Woman (of a mean birth too,

      And meanly match'd) whose all-excelling Form

      Disdains comparison with any She

      That puts in for a fair one, and though you borrow

      From every Country of the Earth the best

      Of those perfections, which the Climat yields

      To help to make her up, if put in Ballance,

      This will weigh down the Scale.

      You talk of wonders.

      She is indeed a wonder, and so kept,

      And, as the world deserv'd not to behold

      What curious Nature made without a pattern,

      Whose Copy she hath lost too, she's shut up,

      Sequestred from the world.

      Who is the owner

      Of such a Jem? I am fire'd.

      One Bartolus,

      A wrangling Advocate.

      A knave on Record.

      I am sure he cheated me of the best part

      Of my Estate.

      Some Business calls me hence,

      (And of importance) which denies me leisure

      To give you his full character: In few words

      (Though rich) he's covetous beyond expression,

      And to encrease his heap, will dare the Devil,

      And all the plagues of darkness: and to these

      So jealous, as if you would parallel

      Old Argus to him, you must multiply

      His Eyes an hundred times: of these none sleep.

      He that would charm the heaviest lid, must hire

      A better Mercurie, than Jove made use of:

      Bless your selves from the thought of him and her,

      For 'twill be labour lost: So farewel Signiors.—

      Leandro? in a dream? wake man for shame.

      Trained into a fools paradise with a tale

      Of an imagin'd Form.

      Jamie is noble,

      And with a forg'd Tale would not wrong his Friend,

      Nor am I so much fir'd with lust as Envie,

      That such a churl as Bartolus should reap

      So sweet a harvest, half my State to any

      To help me to a share.

      Tush do not hope for

      Impossibilities.